It's Father's Day so I've been thinking about fathers. I decided I'd acknowledge all you fathers out there by telling you two stories about my father.
The first has to do with what we called him. My sister Mary Ann and I called him 'Daddy,' we still do. He was so affectionate and warm that the word father didn't fit him at all. Then John, the first grandchild, tried saying grandfather and it came out as Boppie, and all the children who followed called him Boppie. When John was about seven, Daddy said, "John, you're a big boy now and you could call me grandfather." John thought about it a moment and then said, "I would but you're Boppie." Daddy thought about that, smiled, and said, "You're right. I am." He went out a bought a basball cap and had the word "Boppie" embroidered on it.
It's easy to talk about fathers and sons--how fathers are role models for them. But fathers are important to girls too. I know my father was for me. I never heard Daddy tell me he loved me. He saved those words for our Mother. But I knew he did--he adored me. His actions proved it over and over. He was always willing to talk with me about anything I wanted to talk about. And I loved talking about big ideas -- God, the planet, life--issues like that. I was on the debate team, and so we often had heated discussions about things, but only once did we quarrel. I was fifteen. The argument was about money. I said it was important--number one on the list. Daddy said it was important, but never the top priority. He said there were qualities far more important. But I was fifteen and knew better. Our relationship cooled then and I drew away from my father with his old-fashioned ideas. And then there was a war and Daddy went up to Alaska to work. I turned sixteen and began to see more of what really mattered in life. The day came when I wrote a special letter. I remember beginning it with "I know that everyone believes that all a sixteen-year-old girl thinks about is boys, drinking cokes, and having fun. But sometimes they think about more important things." I then told him that he was right, had been right all along and that money was just one of the issues one had to consider in life and that there were more important things. His letters to us continued as before with no mention of my apology. Eventually he returned. We were thrilled to have him back with us. We were a family again. One day, he asked me to get something from his wallet. It was on top of his dresser. I opened his wallet, and there was my letter. It brings tears to my eyes now as I remember standing there, holding the well worn paper, recognizing my handwriting, seeing the words of apology. Neither of us ever mentioned it, but I knew I had been forgiven in the most loving way.
Fathers are special. So, to you who are fathers, thanks!
